In Their End is Their Beginning
by Bleu November
Summary: "You were always running ahead of me—I hated it then, and I hate it now. But I was never very far behind. I followed you then, and someday I will follow you again. And I will find you. I swear I will find you."


**THE END**

_**December 1560**_

"Oh!"

She bolted upright in the massive, four-poster bed, unable to prevent the terrified gasp from escaping her lips. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the surrounding darkness, she realized that she was chilled to the bone, and when she looked down, she could see that her nightgown clung to her skin in clammy folds. The cold sweat that had broken out along her brow had plastered a few stray tendrils of hair to her temples, and as she pushed them back with trembling fingers, she glanced toward the window and realized that she must have been asleep for quite some time. The sharp sliver of diamond-bright moon visible through the glass windowpane had traveled a considerable distance across the night sky since last she looked.

She had not meant to sleep. She had not meant to sleep at all.

From the other side of the bed came the soft, soothing murmur of a voice she knew as intimately as her own. "Mary, what is it? Are you all right?"

Not wanting him to see the wild, haunted look in her eyes, she forced her expression into more placid lines before she turned to face him. "Of course," she replied, but the determined cheerfulness of her tone rang painfully false, even to her own ears. "Just a bad dream. It's nothing."

The ghost of a slow, wistful smile played across his lips. "It didn't sound as if it were nothing."

She willed herself not to acknowledge the truth in his words by crumbling before him.

For her husband, Francis Valois, king of France, was dying, and along with him, every hope and wish she had cherished since she was a little girl. He lay stretched out beside her in their matrimonial bed, his every breath a laborious effort, and even in the dim glow she could see that his fever-bright eyes were brimming with sorrow and pain.

Once upon a time, they had whispered together of children and grandchildren, of a great dynasty of kings and queens that would be the legacy of their love.

Once upon a time, they had discussed the founding of universities, the opening of trade routes, the exploration of the New World.

Once upon a time, they had spoken breathlessly of empires.

What would become of them now, all those plans they had made? Together, with the united might of France and Scotland at their command, they had wielded a power that made nothing seem impossible. They would take on England. They would take on the _world_.

But that was gone now. She no longer dreamed of kingdoms. She no longer dreamed of anything. For Mary Stuart, the world had been reduced to the size of one four-poster bed, her whole universe lit by one candle's light.

In its flickering glow, Francis's hair gleamed like spun gold, and she could not help but reach down and gently brush the curls back from his burning forehead. They were as soft as silk to the touch, and for a moment she lost herself in the sensation of the downy tresses slipping through her fingertips.

He hardly blinked as his eyes, luminous and forget-me-not blue, followed her movements closely. "I'm so sorry, Mary."

Instantly, her hand went still. "What do you have to be sorry for, darling?" There was a quaver in her voice.

"I wanted to give you so much more than this."

Hot, stinging tears—a constant threat since that moment when the physicians had shaken their heads and solemnly pronounced that there was nothing more that could be done for him—pricked her eyes. "Francis…don't…_don't_," she pleaded hoarsely. "You need to rest."

"Mary, please." He brought a hand to her cheek in a feather-light caress, and it tormented her to see the effort that even that small gesture cost him. "I don't want to leave anything unspoken between us."

There were so many regrets, and so little time. Together they huddled under the blankets, their heads resting so closely together that their foreheads touched, and whispered urgently to one another as the candle burned on through the night.

_I wish I could have given you children._

_I am sorry to leave you._

_In my heart, you always came first._

Finally, after what seemed to be a long time, he swallowed thickly and in a voice full of fear and apprehension asked, "Was I a good husband?"

The doubt in his words was like an arrow piercing her heart. "A good husband?" she echoed, attempting a wan smile. "Oh, Francis. You were mine and I loved you." Tenderly, she stroked his face. "You were all I ever wanted. You were more than enough."

As the first dove-grey streaks of dawn lit the sky, they both turned toward the casement to watch as the soft, peach glow on the horizon grew stronger and brighter with the approaching daybreak.

"Help me sit up, Mary. It's been so long since I've seen the sun rise."

She obliged, privately marveling at how weightless and insubstantial he seemed as she gently settled him back against the propped-up pillows. Summoning all his strength, he then held out his arm to her and she instinctively crawled underneath it, curling her body against his as she had done so many times in the past. Her head tucked beneath his chin and her ear pressed against his chest, they both fell silent as his fingertips traced delicate patterns along her collarbone and shoulder.

It seemed to happen all at once. The trees of the forest, shrouded in gloom only seconds before, were suddenly bathed in gilt as the coming rays shot through them in streams of gold. Then the sun itself, its glory burning so brightly that she could only stand to gaze at it for a moment, peeked over the clouds, and all the world seemed new again.

"Beautiful," she murmured.

Francis's breath tickled along the hair of her crown. "I'm so glad that I got to see that one last time, with you."

Beneath her cheek, his heart pounded out a slow, painful rhythm. _Please_, she begged it silently, desperately willing it back to strength. _Please_. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed with all her might as the scalding tears welled out from beneath her lashes and rolled, unheeded, down her face.

"Mary, don't cry. Please don't cry."

"I can't do this without you."

"Yes, you can—"

"_No_."

"You are strong. You are _so strong_—"

"_No_!"

She jerked away from him so that she might see his face, and was struck with inconsolable grief to see the tears beading his own lashes like tiny droplets of glass.

"You think this is easy for me?" he choked out. "You think I want to leave you? I don't know how to do this. Whatever world lies beyond this one, I don't know how to exist in it without you."

She had upset him on this, their last morning, and if she had robbed his final moments of peace she knew she would never forgive herself. "You won't have to," she vowed as she took his hand. "You were always running ahead of me—I hated it then, and I hate it now. But I was never very far behind. I followed you then, and someday I will follow you again. And I will find you. I swear I will find you."

"I know you will, Mary." He smiled, then added softly, "My Mary."

She leaned forward to brush a light kiss onto his slightly parted lips, and was shocked when he returned it with astonishing fervor, as if he were trying to cram forty years' worth of kisses into the space of a few moments. She was amazed to feel the need rising within her, its hot, bright intensity almost painful, and immediately gutted as the reality that he would never again hold her naked in his arms slammed into her like a physical blow.

Too soon, he pulled back from their embrace, his strength spent. She once again cradled herself against him as he wrapped both arms around her and pulled her close. With one hand, he stroked the long tresses of her hair, and the other he settled against her waist. Around his palm was wrapped a string of rosary beads, and they rattled against her skin as she breathed.

"Have you been praying?" she asked quietly.

"Yes." His voice was drowsy.

She covered his hand with her own, and knew that he must have been clutching onto the rosary for quite some time, for the jet beads were warm to the touch. "I remember you holding these when we prayed together in the royal chapel on the night before we were married. Do you remember that?"

"Of course I do. I have forgotten nothing about that day. Seeing you in your white dress, walking down the aisle toward me…that was the happiest moment of my life."

The words brought a lump to her throat. "Are you afraid, Francis?"

His breath hitched in his chest. "Yes."

"I am, too. I've never had to manage before…without you."

"You managed for years without me at the convent."

"No, I didn't. Not really. I knew you were out there somewhere. I took comfort in that. I used to talk to you, you know—well not _talk_, exactly, but sometimes I would see things, or read things, and then I would try to imagine what you would think of them, or what you would say, if you had been there with me."

He was silent for so long that she panicked and her eyes flew to his face. She was relieved to see that he was peering at her intently, a small frown knitted between his brows. "You never told me that."

"No." She flushed, embarrassed.

"I'll still be out there 'somewhere', Mary. You know that, don't you? You can still talk to me. You can _always_ talk to me."

"But you won't be able to hear me." Her words came out wobbly and sad.

"I'll hear you." The corner of his mouth quirked up sardonically. "Perhaps I'll even answer."

She was in no mood for his teasing. "How?"

"Just do as I've always told you, and listen to your heart. It carries mine with it. It always has. Listen, and you will hear it speaking."

"I love you," she told him solemnly. "I never said it enough, but I do. I always did, and I always will."

"And I love you. Just as I promised."

She lay back against him and counted his heartbeats as the sun rose further in the sky. The castle soon began to stir to life around them, and still she listened, burrowing her face against his chest to block out the other sounds as the steady thump grew fainter and fainter. She did nothing but lay perfectly still and listen, straining her ears against its fading tempo, until at last it fell silent, and spoke to her no more.

It was then that her strength, her heart, and the dam within her broke, and she sobbed helplessly against him. The queen within her knew that she must get up, that it was necessary that she notify Catherine and the privy council immediately. Charles would have to be sent for, and he would need to be prepared as the courtiers began flocking to him to swear to him their loyalties. The ambassadors must be called together, and letters written to all the heads of state in Europe. There was so much to be done, and no time to waste.

But the woman within her could not leave her husband's side just yet, and so she tenderly kissed his cheek, wrapped the blankets more tightly around them, and succumbed to her grief.

* * *

_**Jane Kennedy**_

_**17 October 1587**_

Fontainebleau.

It is so large that my eyes cannot all at once take it in. It seems to stretch in every direction—_out_, _out_, and _up_, _up_. Behind me, I can hear Andrew exchanging words with the carriage driver, but I am not listening. I am too awestruck by the sight before me to pay attention.

_Was it beautiful?_ I had once asked her.

Her smile was, as always, wistful. _Imagine the most beautiful palace in the world. Hold it in your mind's eye. Now, imagine it ten times lovelier. Then you may come close to picturing the beauty of Fontainebleau._

_You were wrong, mistress_, I think as I marvel silently at the chateau's magnificent façade. _Even my imagination could not come close to this_.

Unbidden, an image of the cold stone exterior of Fotheringhay flashes through my mind, and I shiver.

Thank God for Andrew. We are soon ushered into a marble hallway, and I am dimly aware as he speaks to guard after guard, brandishing our letter with its heavy pendant seals from the Lord Chancellor at every turn. My eyes continue to drink in everything around me, and it seems only mere seconds before Andrew leans down close to my ear and whispers, "We are to be presented next."

I nod. I am nervous, far more nervous than I had anticipated. It is not merely the sheer splendor of my surroundings that has me rattled. I, too, am carrying a letter, and I have no idea what sort of reaction it will evoke.

_Did you ever stand here, my queen, as I am standing here now? _

Within the pocket sewn into the lining of my cloak, there lies a rosary with beads of jet and a crucifix of gold. It does not matter that my family moved away from the old religion years ago, or that Andrew and I had been married in a Protestant ceremony only three months before. I move my hand so that I might touch it with my fingertips, as if for reassurance, just as I had seen her do so many times.

The heavy doors are flung open and Andrew takes my arm as he leads me into the room.

There, seated regally on his throne, is King Henry III of France, and beside him his queen, Louise of Lorraine. The king is handsome, I cannot help but note, with delicate features and soft blue eyes. I cannot stop myself from staring at him. If she were here and standing before him now, as I was, would my queen still be able to see the ghost of the little boy she had once known?

Andrew and I are announced with great formality, and I immediately drop into a curtsey, my heart pounding so loudly that I am certain that everyone can hear it. I have always been shy in the presence of strangers, and it had not occurred to me that there might be so many people at court this day. I feel the burn of each and every one of their gazes as they gawk at us, our somber Scottish fashions belying our foreign status before we can even open our mouths.

"Jane Kennedy," the king says slowly, taking all of me in with one long look. "I am told you are the daughter of Lord Cassilis."

"His youngest, your Majesty, though he died before I knew him well. I am Jane Melville now."

"I met him once, long ago. He came to our brother's wedding, and was a friend to our kingdom. We shall consider you the same."

I know that I am blushing. I cannot help it. I had not expected kindness. "I am honored, your Majesty, and I thank you."

"Now," he says, leaning forward suddenly, his tone much more business-like. "To what do we owe the honor of this visit? It cannot be official business. The Auld Alliance between our kingdoms was dissolved years ago."

I swallow nervously, but am surprised when my voice comes out startlingly clear. "I am here on behalf of Mary, Queen of Scots."

There is an audible gasp around the room, and a soft buzzing sound as people begin to whisper excitedly. Twenty-seven years have passed since she took her leave from this place, and yet she can still cause a stir.

_I have a way of leaving chaos in my wake_, she once said. _Or so I've been told_.

A voice rings out above the soft hiss of voices. "Mary, Queen of Scots is dead."

Every head in the room whips toward the woman standing off to the side of the elevated dais on which rest the chairs of state. Her silver hair is shot through with strands of copper, and though she looks as if the top of her head would barely reach the top of my ears, there is something about her tiny presence that exudes ferocious power and confidence. I do not need to be told that I am in the presence of Catherine de Medici. There could be no mistaking her.

"Y-yes," I stammer. "I know. I come bearing her last letter, addressed to his Majesty, King Henry."

The queen mother steps forward and casts a wary eye upon me. "We were told that her physician, Bourgoyne, was to be present and give a proper account of her death."

"He was. I mean, he will be. He fell ill in Paris and was forced to stay behind. He should be expected to arrive within the next day or two."

She comes to a stop before me, and I can see the piercing intelligence behind her hazel-rimmed green eyes. "I take it you were her lady?"

"Yes, your Grace."

"She must have had great faith in you, to trust you with her final words."

I can feel the weight of the rosary, like a chain of lead, within the lining of my cloak. "I should like to think so," I reply, in what I hope is a tone of confidence.

She glances back at the king, who gives her a barely perceptible nod. "Very well," she exclaims, clapping her hands. "You and your husband must be exhausted. Why don't we have the footmen escort you to a room, and we shall speak later."

Almost instantly, servants in blue livery appear, and I watch as Andrew directs them toward the trunks which were unloaded from the carriage upon our arrival. Within minutes we are whisked away to a suite far surpassing any luxury I could have possibly imagined, and once our things are neatly deposited into various wardrobes and cupboards, left to our own devices.

Andrew settles himself into one of the richly upholstered chairs. "Well…what now?"

"We wait," I sigh, plopping myself down opposite him.

"Wait for what?"

A thread on one of the chair's arms has worked its way loose, and I pick at it with nervous, restless fingers. "A summons."

_**20 December 1586**_

"See those four stars forming a crooked line?"

"I'm not sure. Where? Wait…yes! Yes, I do."

"That is Andromeda. She was bound to a rock by the sea and offered as a sacrifice to appease the gods intent on destroying her kingdom. That is why some people simply call her _the woman in chains_."

From where I sat by the crackling fire, I glanced up from my embroidery hoop with a tiny smile. Mary, Queen of Scots stood by the casement window with one hand gently resting on young Mary Piaget's shoulder, her other pointed toward the purpling night sky.

"And did they?" the young girl asked eagerly. "Sacrifice her, I mean?"

"No. She was saved by Perseus, there beside her, see? He married her, and together they ruled for many years. After their deaths, Athena placed them side-by-side in the northern sky, so that they might always be together."

The younger girl looked enchanted. "What a beautiful story," she breathed.

My mistress leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the diamond pained window, a pensive expression on her face. "Yes. If only it were true."

The Yuletide was upon us, but for those of us confined within the unfeeling stone walls of Fotheringhay Castle, there was little to celebrate. It had been less than a month since our mistress, Mary Stuart, had been convicted of plotting against the life of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England, and condemned to die. It had been a show trial founded on trumped-up charges, and the news of the sentence had put a permanent blot upon the lives of those of us who served and loved her, from which there seemed to be no recovering.

"Come, your Grace," I beckoned, setting my needle and thread aside and breaking her reverie. "Let us ready you for bed."

Once we had helped her into her flowing muslin nightdress, I sat her down before me in front of the looking glass and plucked a silver-backed brush off the small vanity table. It was a ritual that we had performed each night for nearly twelve years, ever since I had entered her service as a lady-in-waiting at the tender age of 15. She was already a captive by then, but my family had long ties to the house of Stuart. My late father, Lord Cassilis, had been one of the Scottish noblemen to travel to France and see her married at Notre Dame all those years ago, and when given the opportunity to join her household, I had been honored to accept.

As I brushed her hair, the short chestnut locks streaked heavily with grey by then, her attention wandered to where Elizabeth Curle stood by the fire, wielding a set of hot curling tongs and carefully setting and arranging the hair on a wig of long, lustrous auburn. It was only we, the few women of her chamber, whom she allowed to see how the years of heartache and imprisonment had aged her.

"That is something I don't miss," she remarked as she watched Elizabeth work. "Cutting off all my hair was a small price indeed to pay for the comfort of knowing that I need never again be within arm's reach of a set of hot curling tongs."

I smiled at her through the glass. "I burned my finger once dressing my sister's hair. I still have the scar." I held the afflicted appendage up as evidence, the pink weal still visible on the side of my index finger.

She made a tutting noise of sympathy. "I think every woman has earned at least one battle scar in the name of beauty," she observed wryly. "I can remember my ladies arranging my hair for a feast day once, and we became so caught up in our conversation, and so distracted, that one of their hands slipped and dropped the blistering-hot iron smack on the back of my neck."

"I would have jumped like a scalded cat!" I exclaimed, the very thought eliciting a sympathetic chuckle from me.

She nodded, laughing, and as always, the sound put me in mind of tinkling bells. Her laughter made it so easy to imagine what she had been like as a girl, and the dimples in her cheeks melted the years away as if by magic. "Oh, I did, believe me! And shrieked like the hounds of hell had been set upon me on top of that. You could hear me from one end of the castle to the other! So there I was, surrounded by my ladies and pressing a cold cloth against my neck—all of us still in our dressing gowns, mind you—when Francis came bursting in with some of his men, swords drawn and ready to do battle. He had heard me screaming and was convinced I was being murdered on the spot! I'm sure we made quite a spectacle—four half-dressed girls diving for cover behind chairs, with me throwing my slippers at the guards and shouting, 'Get out! Get out!'"

The image she described sent me into a fit of giggles, and when I finally collected myself, I was surprised to see her peering steadily at her reflection in the mirror with large, sad eyes.

"Oh, Jane," she whispered, and her voice broke a little. "Would he even recognize me now?"

Her voice wrung my heart. "I'm sure he would, your Grace. I am sure he would."

The corner of her mouth lifted in a self-deprecating smile. "It's funny. I am older now than his mother was when we lost him, and yet he has never aged for me, nor changed. I see him in my mind's eye just as he was on that day I first returned to the French court. Still young. Still golden."

It was rare for her to speak so openly about her first husband, the boyish king who had left her a childless widow in the flower of her youth, yet I knew he was often in her thoughts. She carried with her always a letter, spotted with age and worn so thin that the parchment was practically transparent, and every so often she took it out to gaze upon it. Rarely had a day gone by that I had not seen it at least once, although I had never read it. As far as I knew, she had never shown it to anyone. Yet I had seen it often enough to know that it began with "to my most dear and loving wife," and ended with "yours, and with love for always, Francis."

"What was he like?" I asked, suddenly curious to know more about the fair-haired boy whose death had shaped the destiny of my beloved mistress.

She tipped her head to the side and frowned thoughtfully, and her eyes glowed with the memory of him. "In truth, I wouldn't even know where to begin, Jane," she admitted after moment's reflection. "He was very good, and very brave, and very beautiful...and I loved him. I loved him very, very much."

A wave of pity washed over me. "It's a shame that you lost him so young."

"It would have been a shame no matter when I lost him," she countered softly. "Had we fifty years together, it still wouldn't have been enough. Not nearly enough." We both fell quiet, and she appeared to be thinking deeply about something. I simply waited, knowing that she would speak what was on her mind only when ready. Finally, after a long pause, she dropped her eyes and said, "Jane, I need you to do something for me."

I froze, immediately torn by her words. There was nothing that I would not have done to help her, but it was not only myself that I had to consider. I had my family to think of. If she were to suggest another scheme, another escape plan, how could I possibly turn her down? And yet, knowing the retribution it might bring upon my mother, brothers, and sisters, how could I possibly accept?

She sensed my hesitation, and its source. "You have nothing to fear, Jane," she promised. "What I am about to ask of you will bring no danger or harm to you or your family. You have my word."

Her voice, so warm and reassuring, made me burn with chagrin at my initial reluctance. I took a deep breath. "Of course, mistress. Anything. What do you need me to do?"

"I've entrusted you with the care of my jewels for some time now, and you have maintained such excellent records for me. It is thanks to you that I know the location of every piece, the givers and receivers of every gift...I think you know more about my gold and plate than I do."

My cheeks grew warm with a hot flush of pride. "I doubt that, but I am honored that I have pleased you with my service."

"It goes without saying, then, that you aware that there is one piece that I have never allowed to be inventoried." Her stare was unwavering, her eyes full of guarded expectation.

"The rosary and crucifix," I responded slowly.

"Yes." She reached within the folds of her dressing gown and produced the object in question: a beautifully crafted rosary with beads of polished jet. From it hung a crucifix of gold, encrusted here and there with tiny, sparkling gemstones. While it was true that she owned pieces far more ornate, she owned few that were more delicately exquisite.

Yet no one, save myself and a few of her ladies, knew of its existence.

Like the letter, the rosary remained on her person at all times, and yet she never walked about with it in her hand or hung it from her sash as she did the others in her collection. The only time it saw the light if day was when she was safely ensconced in her chambers, kneeling at her own prie dieu, with no one but a few loyal servants or her chaplain to attend her.

"When they carry out my sentence, the headsman will have claim to all of my personal effects, as per custom."

Her words brought a sick, swooping feeling in my stomach. "Mistress, please let's not think of that," I begged her. "You can't know the future. There is still time—"

"Jane." Her voice was firm, yet kind.

I looked at her miserably.

"You know that the headsman will lay claim to my personal effects," she continued calmly, "and what he doesn't take as his due will be burned. Whatever I carry onto that scaffold will be destroyed along with me. They will take no chances. There will be no relics."

"I know."

"I say let them." She tossed her head in a gesture of defiance. "Let them burn my memory to ashes. But, this…" She closed her first over the crucifix and held it so tightly against her breast that her knuckles turned white. "He cannot have this. I cannot allow it."

I did not understand. "Would you like it sent somewhere? For safekeeping, or perhaps as a gift? We could smuggle it out—"

"No," she interrupted quickly. "I want to keep it with me. I _must_ keep it with me...until the end."

"What...what do you mean?"

"You have a deft touch and nimble fingers, Jane. I plan to carry this with me to the scaffold, but you must see to it that the executioner never gets his hands on it. You will carry a second crucifix, and at the last moment you will take this one from my grasp and exchange it for the other, and no one will be the wiser."

My head spun. There was so much to absorb from her words. I had not expected to accompany her to the scaffold. I did not think I could bear it. Then to be expected to execute such a sleight of hand while surrounded by people and in front of dozens, perhaps hundreds of witnesses...how could I manage such a feat? How could I stomach it?

"I don't know if I can pull that off," I protested desperately. "Why not just carry the other rosary, and allow me to send yours somewhere safe? Surely it will be easier—"

"Jane, this belonged to Francis. _My Francis_." Her voice trembled at his name, but did not shatter. "It was a gift from the Holy Roman Emperor upon his christening. He wore it for his confirmation, and it was in his hands when we prayed together the night before our wedding. He set off for Calais with it tucked safely inside his armor, and when he fell ill…" I could see her struggle to maintain her composure. "He held it as he died, and it has been in my possession every moment since. It has kept him close to me, despite time and distance. It gives me strength, as he once did. It was with him at his death. I need it with me at mine."

I was crying by then—heavy, silent tears that slipped out of my eyes and dripped from my cheeks. "I won't let the headsman take it, your Grace," I vowed, my voice thick. "I will see to it that it is buried with you, if that is your wish."

"That is not my wish."

Bewildered and feeling helpless, I shook my head. "Then I am not sure what you are asking of me."

"Sit down, Jane. Let us talk."

_**7 February 1587**_

As we sat closely gathered about the roaring fire, a necessity during the winter months even when the sun was at its peak, I could hardly concentrate on Elizabeth's voice as she read aloud from a collection of Ronsard's poetry. Something was afoot in the castle, and we all had a sickening feeling of what was about to transpire. Earlier that day, the earls of Kent and Shrewsbury had arrived unexpectedly at Fotheringhay, accompanied by Lord Buckhurst and Robert Beale, Queen Elizabeth's diplomat who had made the journey north to the castle only months before, in late autumn, to read aloud the warrant passing the death sentence upon my mistress.

And now, audible over the clear voice of Elizabeth, was the steady hammering sound of metal on wood.

I felt ill.

It was not long after our midday meal that we heard an ominous knocking outside the privy chamber door. Without ceremony, in burst the earls, accompanied by Beale and our custodian, Sir Amayas Paulet, and his assistant Sir Drue Drury, their faces all like thunderclouds. We listened, petrified into silence, as it was announced that Mary Stuart, former queen of Scots, was to be executed shortly after eight o'clock the following morning.

She said not a word as the warrant for her execution was read aloud, and her expression remained a smooth blank. Upon its conclusion, she merely folded her hands upon her lap and said calmly, "I thank you for such welcome news. You will do me a great good in withdrawing me from this world, out of which I am very glad to go."

The men gaped at her and fidgeted nervously, at a loss as to how they should react in the face of such acceptance and resignation.

"Will my chaplain be admitted to comfort me and pray with me during these final hours?" she pressed on brusquely.

The question seemed to bring Paulet back to his senses. "Of course not, madam," he snapped. "There is no place for popish vanity here. You are to die in a Christian kingdom."

If it were possible to roll one's eyes without actually doing so, that is exactly the reaction my mistress had to this pronouncement. "And what of my burial?" she continued. "What is my sister-queen's answer to my request that I might lie next to my husband?"

"Husband?" Paulet spat mockingly. "Which one? That sick young boy moldering under the stones of Saint Denis? The vain dandy interred at Holyrood, whom you murdered in cold blood? Or are you referring to that blackguard who ravished you and then died, his mind unhinged, like a criminal in a Danish prison?"

During this tirade, my mistress's face remained impassive, but I saw her lips go white and begin to twitch.

"_You know which one_," she replied, and though her tone remained regal and dignified, it shook with rage.

The Earl of Shrewsbury, who seemed to take no pleasure in this task, stepped forward. "Madam, you can hardly expect her Majesty to grant your request to be buried in France," he explained, his eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made his face look almost kind. "I am sorry."

My mistress sucked in a steadying breath and shot me a covert look. I knew that she was thinking of our discussion two months prior, as I was. "I see. Very well. Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me. I must have time to prepare myself. Leave us."

After a brief exchange of glances and unintelligible mumbling, they obliged.

As the heavy door banged shut behind them, the room immediately descended into chaos. There were tears and remonstrations and passionate exclamations of grief from every corner. They continued until our queen, who hitherto had remained mute, leapt to her feet. "Weeping is useless," she admonished us, "and there is much to do. Jane, fetch some parchment and quills. Elizabeth, begin brushing out my black gown—the satin one trimmed in gold and sable."

"Yes, mistress," we responded in unison.

"And Mary?"

The young girl sat sobbing, unable to collect herself. "Yes, your Grace?" she managed to choke out.

"I want you to go through that wardrobe in the corner. Remove all of its contents and spread them out upon the table there. Can you do that?"

The girl sniffled, her tears abating now that she had an official order on which to concentrate. "Yes."

"Thank you, child."

I hovered over her, a supply of already sharpened quills at the ready, as she sat down at her little writing table and began rapidly scratching out a series of instructions and letters. I was amazed at how quickly and efficiently her hand scrawled across the page, as my own hands were shaking so badly that I had already spilled one bottle of ink as I had gone about setting out her writing materials.

Finally, she passed a small stack of parchment paper to me, each sheet filled with her large, rounded handwriting. "There," she said, looking more tired than I had ever seen her. "I have one more letter to write, but I shall save that for last. Now, I think it is time to distribute my possessions."

"Of course, mistress."

"Jane, before I do…You recall the request I made of you some weeks ago?"

"Yes."

"And you understand, now, why it is so important to me?"

"Yes."

Though her eyes sparkled with unshed tears, she smiled as she brought forth the rosary from the inner lining of her gown. There was a flat, gold disc where the circlet of beds joined together, and I watched as she used the edge of her fingernail to pop it open with a small _click_.

"Come look, Jane."

I obeyed, stepping forward to peer more closely at the object now spread open in her palm. The disc, I saw, was in fact a locket, and nestled within it were two short locks of hair: one dark and braided, one golden and curled.

"Is that…?"

She nodded. "I suppose it is easy to tell which one is mine, isn't it? Before he set out for Calais, I snipped off the end of one of my braids so that he could keep it here, and carry a small bit of me with him always. He did the same, and I wore his hidden in the compartment of a bracelet that had been a gift from his mother. After he…after he died...I twisted them together and kept them both here within this locket, where they would never be separated." With a touch as light as a breeze, she ran her fingertip over the fair strands, an expression of unspeakable yearning on her features. Then she shut the locket closed with a muted _snap_, tucked it back inside her gown, and stared at me with eyes that were suddenly bright with curiosity.

"Now. Tell me of the plans you and young Master Melville have made."

It was such an abrupt change of subject that I could do nothing but blush and sputter. "W-what do you mean?"

"Oh, come Jane. There is no need to be coy. That man is in love with you."

Andrew Melville, the young man in question, had served as her steward in recent years, and she had come to rely quite heavily upon him. While it was true that a certain _affection_ had sprung up between us some time ago, the affairs of our queen had been far too absorbing of late for me to give the matter any serious consideration.

"In _love_ with me?" I echoed, dumbfounded. "Mistress, I'm sorry, but I do not think—"

"Jane. Listen to me."

Immediately, I complied.

"I have seen the way he looks at you. I know that look. A woman is lucky if she receives it from one man over the course of a lifetime."

"I don't know what to say," I told her, my face aflame.

She reached out and squeezed my hand. "Say that you'll marry him when he asks for your hand. I wanted to speak to you now, and give you my blessing, so that there would never be any doubt. Say _yes_. You will regret it your whole life if you don't. Be one of the lucky ones, Jane. As I was."

I squeezed her hand in return and nodded as my vision blurred with tears. "I will."

"Now, come. I have some gifts to distribute."

_**8 February 1587**_

It was not quite dawn when Mary Stuart arose from her bed. I doubt she had slept; none of us had. I secretly prayed for the strength to get me through her final hours.

She stood stock-still as we somberly arrayed her in the garments she had selected with great care the evening before: the black satin gown, the bodice of crimson velvet, the richly embroidered slashed sleeves fashioned in the Italian style. She would see to it that no one who set eyes upon her that day would be able to sear her image from his memory.

Finally, she had been dressed and readied, and there was nothing to do other than wait for the earls to come and escort her on her final journey.

"I want to thank you," she said, addressing us from where she stood in front of the blazing fire. "You have been the only family I have known for many years, and each and every one of you has served me well."

From various corners of the room came the sound of stifled sobs.

"I can only hope," she went on, "that you remember me as fondly as I remember you. History, I am afraid, will not be so kind." Here she attempted a smile for our benefit, but it was brittle and weak.

"They will say that I was a conniver and a murderer, a siren who lured three husbands to their untimely deaths. They will say that I was a fool for love. Let them say it. I do not care, so long as you, my dear friends, know the truth of me in your hearts. I may have had three husbands, but I want you to know that I was a wife only once. And, yes, I was a fool for love, but not in the way that they think. They will tell tales of how Darnley seduced me in an instant, and how I lost all sense and reason the moment I clapped eyes upon him. What they do not know, and will never know, is the pang that went to my heart that day he stepped off the boat at Wemyss, swept off his hat, and the sunlight lit up his fair hair." She paused as a single, fat teardrop rolled down her cheek, which she brushed away impatiently with the heel of her hand. "Francis had been gone for four years by then, you see, and I just…I just missed him so. I was a fool. A sad one."

Elizabeth, who had been with her the longest, rushed forward to take her hand. "You don't need to upset yourself by telling us these things, mistress," she said quietly. "We know what lies in your heart."

Our queen's eyes were shining with gratitude. "Thank you, Elizabeth." She then reached inside her gown for the letter that she kept concealed in her chemise, and drew it forth, staring at it with an unreadable expression. "After he died, I realized how precious few letters I had received from him during the time of our marriage. We were so rarely apart. But, I have this one, which I have carried with me for over twenty years. Should I leave it behind, I am sure it will be picked apart, scrutinized, and twisted, as so many of the letters addressed to me have been." Without further preamble, she tossed it into the fire, and I could not help but give out a startled cry as she did.

"I have been allowed to keep so few things sacred in my life," she murmured, watching as the flames licked the parchment and it began to blacken and curl at the edges. "I will not let them touch that. My husband wrote those words for my eyes only, and they will remain between him and me."

We all stared mutely as those words burned to ashes, and it was not long afterwards that the earls arrived with their guards to escort her away. She handled their arrival with supreme grace, and I could not help but admire her for it. Drawing herself up to her full height, she swept the men an imperious, freezing glance, before smiling and nodding to each of us in turn. It was bittersweet, and though her eyes were warm, their wet gleam belied her sadness. When they came to rest on me, she lifted her brows, her expression suddenly hesitant, and I gave the slightest of nods in answer to the question that they posed.

And then she beamed at me, and stepped forward to cup my cheek with her hand.

"Tell her I died like a queen," she whispered, her hazel eyes ablaze.

"Tell who, mistress?"

But she never got the chance to answer. One of the guards prodded her along none-too-gently with his elbow, and with a deep sigh and steadying breath, she marched out of the room before him. One by one, we followed her.

It was both the longest and shortest journey of my life. The narrow stone passageways echoed with the sounds of our heeled footsteps and the tramp of boots from the men who marched solemnly before and after us. I could see her in front of me, her shoulders and head held high, and when the sight brought forth from within me a small sob, Elizabeth swiftly elbowed me in the ribs and hissed, "Don't you dare. We promised her."

It seemed to take days, and yet only seconds, and suddenly we were stopped under a large archway that led into the castle's great hall. Our whole party drew to a halt, and I could hear the harsh sounds of men arguing and issuing orders. I shot a confused look to Elizabeth, and we both pulled back in fear as a large, unfamiliar man strode purposefully toward us.

"You two," he barked, jabbing his index finger in our direction. "You attend to her."

Young Mary Piaget started forward after us and was promptly shoved back into place. "No. Only these two."

With one hand, I clasped onto Elizabeth as we were ushered under the archway on legs that were wobbly with terror. In the other, I held a kerchief of fine linen, and hidden within its folds, a rosary made of dark glass beads.

I did not know if I could pull it off what had been asked of me, but I knew that I had to try.

As we helped her onto the scaffold, the large hall opened up before us and I saw that it was filled with people. The queen seemed to falter somewhat in the face of the multitude, and as Elizabeth and I held onto her arms and guided her forward, I could see that she was rubbing her thumb across something that she kept closed tightly within her white-knuckled hand. Francis's rosary. I kept my eyes trained on it, as if not allowing it to escape from my sight could guarantee its salvation.

What followed was a hellish nightmare. She was ordered to disrobe, and though we hastened to obey, we were still commanded to move faster. She attempted to make light of it by adopting a valiant facade for those of us awash in the horror of what was coming. "I'm not in the habit of undressing in front of so many people," she admitted, forcing a coquettish smile.

We divested her of her beautiful black gown, her veil, and the ivory rosary that hung at her waist, while the executioner eyed each cast-off item hungrily. When she finally stood alone in her kirtle of scarlet, like a pillar of fire in a field of ashes, there was an audible murmur heard throughout the hall.

Red. The color of the heart's blood. The color of martyrdom.

"So the whore fancies herself a saint," sneered a loud, mocking voice from the crowd.

I wanted to throttle whomever had dared speak of her so cruelly. _She's not a martyr_, I thought, defiant. _She's a phoenix in flames_.

And then it was time. Tucking the rosary of glass into my sleeve, I shook open the cloth and approached her where she knelt with her hands clasped before her in prayer. The string of jet beads gleamed dully through her interlaced fingers.

"I must cover your eyes, your Grace," I announced through trembling lips. Then, struck with the sudden feeling that I would never succeed in doing as she had asked, I leaned down as close to her ear as I dared and whispered, "Might I take it now, so that you can be assured of its safety? They're going to burn everything, and if I can't get to it in time—"

Her eyes flew to my face, and I could see the first stirrings of panic within them. "No. No, I need it with me," she protested. "I'll never find the courage to lay my head on that block without it."

My heart felt like a stone in my chest.

"You will get to it before they do. I know you will."

"Yes, mistress." I looked down at the cloth in my hands.

"Jane."

I met her eyes, which were once again serene.

"Take me back. Take me back to him."

"Get on with it," the executioner growled, causing us both to jump.

I settled the cloth over her eyes and tied the ends firmly together at the back of her head. She flung out her hand, suddenly unsteady, and I grasped it and urged her forward until her fingertips brushed over the smooth surface of the block. "Oh!" she murmured in the faintest of faint voices, then sucked in a quavering breath as she settled to her knees in a billow of crimson cloth.

I took her hand once more and pressed a desperate kiss onto the back of her clenched fist, hoping that the gesture was able to convey some modicum of the love and gratitude for her that was brimming within my heart. In a voice that was rough and clotted with unshed tears, I choked out, "I must leave you now, mistress."

Her hand was warm as it squeezed mine. "No, Jane. I am afraid it is _I _who will be leaving _you_ now."

A sob rose in my throat. How could I walk away from her, knowing that it was the last time? How could I bear it? "Oh, your Grace—"

"It is all right, Jane. I am going to him. I can think of nothing sweeter."

A hand clamped down on my arm and I felt myself being dragged away from her. "I'll see you safely home," I called out desperately. "I swear."

"I know you will, Jane, and I thank you."

I cannot accurately recount what happened next, as my mind has reduced the horrifying moments that followed into one murky, confused mess. I remember hearing her voice once more, and then the dull _thunk_ of the axe as it fell. _Twice_.

"So perish all the queen's enemies!" boomed the voice of the executioner, and knowing what he must be doing, and how the entire gathered crowd would be focused on him in that moment, I slipped the glass rosary from my sleeve and dashed forward. Drumming up courage from God knows where, I reached for the one that had fallen from her hand only seconds before, and—in one deft move that I am certain I would never be able to repeat—snatched it up in exchange for the one that I held concealed against my palm. A rivulet of blood had wound its way through the spot in which it had lain, and my fingertips came away smeared with red. I shuddered, drew back, and finally caught the attention of one of the guards standing to the side of the scaffold. He glared at me suspiciously, then turned his eyes to the pitiful form of my fallen queen, but could find nothing amiss.

Something happened then to draw gasps of horror from the witnesses, and I heard a woman exclaim, "Her hair!" I could guess what had occurred, but I could not bring myself to look. My task having been completed, I grabbed Elizabeth and together we stumbled down the steps of the scaffold. At the bottom stood Andrew, who waited for me with a face white and pinched with fear.

"Jane," he gasped, rushing forward to envelop me in an embrace. "I am so, so sorry. Oh, my poor girl, how did you stand it? What can I do?"

"We have to go to France," I managed to choke out.

And then I quietly fainted dead away in his arms.

_**18 October 1587**_

Never before have I seen such opulence. I stand alone in the center of a room with a floor covered in thick Persian carpets and a ceiling of intricate, gilded molding. I am looking around, feeling completely out of place, when my eyes fasten upon a portrait that hangs on the wall before me. She is hardly more than a girl in the image, but there is no mistaking Mary Stuart. At her side stands a slender, fair-haired boy whose solemn expression is softened by his blue-eyed gaze.

My meeting with the king had turned out to be brief and rather anti-climactic. I had stood before him as he read the letter to himself, nervously shifting my weight from one foot to the other as he did. He had then asked me to provide an account of her final days, which I did as succinctly as possible.

"And did she suffer, in the end?" he had asked anxiously.

It was then that the queen mother, who had been present during the entire interview, had leaned forward almost imperceptibly, caught my eye, and given the faintest shake of her head.

The message was clear. "No," I had lied. "No, she didn't suffer at all."

Now that Andrew has gone to arrange for our departure the next afternoon, I have taken it upon myself to explore the beautiful chateau. It is during my roaming that I stumble upon the portrait, and now I stand on my tiptoes in order to see it better, squinting, taking in the details of the boy's delicate features and softly curling golden hair.

"Oh, do not be fooled," a genial voice speaks out, interrupting my thoughts. "He only _looked_ like an angel."

I spin around to see King Henry, whom I had not expected to meet again after the end of our brief exchange. He approaches me, his hands clasped behind his back, his long legs taking quick strides.

"Your Majesty," I squeak, startled. I drop into a hasty curtsey

"Mistress Melville." He glances at the painting. "I see you have found their wedding portrait."

I tilt my chin toward it. "Your brother, Francis?"

The king nods and steps closer—and therefore closer to me—and I can see that the dark luster of his exquisitely-cut black velvet coat is even more impressive up close. His proximity to Francis's likeness seems to emphasize the similarities of their fine bone structure, and the prettiness that renders their good looks almost disconcerting. "Yes. They look very young, don't they?"

I swallow, my throat feeling tight. "Yes. Very young."

"I was only a boy when Mary left to return to Scotland, but I remember her quite clearly," he goes on, his tone amiable and conversational, as if we were pleasant acquaintances. "She was always so very kind to me. To everyone, in fact. I hope the years did not change that."

"They didn't," I assure him, and will myself not to cry.

"She was so beautiful. Even as a little boy, I envied my brother that. We were all a bit in awe of her, I believe." His gaze falls to the richly woven carpet. "It's such a shame that my most vivid memories of her are sad ones."

I say nothing and wait for him to continue. Standing here, gazing upon the face of my mistress, I do not quite trust myself to speak.

"When Francis fell ill, they would hardly allow us younger children to see him. Charles and I were practically banned from his presence out of fear that we would sicken, as well. We kept asking for him, and for Mary, too, but she refused to leave his side." He clears his throat softly. "When he finally passed, no one came to tell us. But we knew. We knew because of Mary. They had gone into their bedchamber to take him away, you see, and we could hear her. We could hear her screaming, just screaming for him, over and over. And…we knew."

I don't want to picture the scene he just described, and fight to keep my mind from conjuring up its image. "How awful," I murmur.

"The physicians were amazed that he had held on for as long as he did. I remember standing in the corridor with Charles and watching as they filed past us with their heads hung low. 'My God, what a struggle,' I heard one of them say. 'And for what? Two more days of agony? Three?' They just shook their heads, but of course we weren't surprised to hear that he had continued to fight, even when the pain must have been excruciating. No one who knew my brother at all could have been."

"What do you mean?"

"For three more days with Mary?" A rueful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "What _wouldn't_ my brother have done or endured for that?"

"Henry."

The voice startles us both. I turn to see Catherine de Medici standing just inside the doorway, an unreadable expression on her face, and get the distinct feeling that she has been standing there for some time.

"Ambassador Mendoza says he urgently needs to speak with you." Her eyes flit from the king, to me, to the portrait behind us and back again without any flicker of emotion. "He awaits you in your presence chamber."

Immediately, the king pivots on his heels to face me and bends his angular frame in a deeply formal bow. "Mrs. Melville."

"Your Majesty."

He strides out of the room without a backward glance. His mother, right behind him, does the same, and I am once again alone in the room.

Later that night, after Andrew has fallen asleep, I light a taper and make my way out into the corridor. We are leaving tomorrow, anxious to return home to Scotland and begin our life together after existing in limbo for so many months. However, there is one more room in the chateau that I must see before I leave, and I need the darkness to conceal my movements lest I be discovered and questioned.

I scurry along the corridors and staircases, losing my way several times. Eventually, I find myself standing before a door that is exactly like the one she had described to me, and so I push it open and tiptoe inside.

I find myself in a set of apartments that look as if they have been abandoned for many years. Scattered throughout are the remnants of a royal childhood: books bound in supple leather, a beautifully painted rocking horse, dolls clothed in silk and lace. Finally, I glimpse the gleam of metal in the moonlight, and know that I have found the right place.

If I didn't know better, I would find the combination of girlish baubles and steel blades in this room odd and disconcerting. But I know where I am. I can sense her here, and perhaps him as well. The shadow of her presence is like balm to my soul.

"I thought I might find you here."

It is the second time in the span of just a few hours that Catherine de Medici has nearly caused me a heart attack. I whip around to see her shadowy outline where she stands in front of one of the room's large glass windows, from which it seems the entire kingdom must be visible by day.

I recover my composure with difficulty. "You startled me, your Grace."

"She was a child here, in these rooms," she continues, almost as if I had never spoken. "After she left, Francis would come here whenever he needed some solitude, or perhaps, I suppose, to be close to her again. Come." She pushes open the window and steps out onto a narrow balcony. After hesitating for only a moment, I follow.

"They used to come out here sometimes on summer evenings," she muses, folding her hands upon the low stone railing. "Did she ever tell you?"

"She would point out the constellations to us from the windows of her rooms at Chartley and Fotheringhay," I respond as I look up at the sparkling dome of the night sky. "She said that Francis used to show them to her from the balcony outside of her old rooms." From where I stand, it is almost as if I can see them, barely grown and drunk with love, gazing up into the very heavens that I am now.

I shiver.

"He did," she agrees proudly. "My son had no use for Nostradamus as a seer, but as an _astronomer_…Well, that was different altogether. 'I don't believe the stars can tell me of my future,' he said to me, 'but I do believe they can tell me a story.' Of course I disagreed, but I couldn't sway him. He was ever-so-logical, my Francis."

"He must have taught her well. Perseus and Andromeda were her favorites. She was always searching the night sky for them."

"The princess in chains and the hero who killed his father and went on to become king." She emits a wry chuckle. "How fitting. If only Mary and Francis had been granted their long lives, as well." There is a heavy silence before she speaks once more. "I was shocked and saddened to hear the news of her death. It was almost like losing one of my own."

I cannot keep the skepticism from my face.

"Oh, I can imagine the things she told you about me, and I imagine that many of them were true. I put my children first, above everything, and that was both the forging and undoing of my relationship with Mary. Our love for Francis put us at odds as often as it joined us together, it seemed. But I want you to know that I did care for her, in my own way. She was the only person on this earth who understood what it was like to love my son as much as I did."

"That never changed."

"No, it wouldn't. Her grief when he died…I have never seen anything like it, before or since. Even while mourning him myself, I could not help but pity her for her loss. She absolutely refused to leave the body, with an obstinacy that bordered on mania. When I went in to reason with her, I found her nearly hysterical. 'I know what they're going to do,' she shouted. 'I haven't forgotten.' You must understand, when she was a young girl we had visited the abbey at Notre Dame des Hautes Bruyeres, and she had seen the funeral urn of Francis's grandfather. This confused her, of course, and she asked me why he was not buried at Saint Denis with the other French kings. That is when I explained to her that it was a tradition for the kings of France to have their hearts taken from them when they died, so while their bodies may rest in Saint Denis, their hearts are spread throughout the kingdom." She stops and swallows thickly. "Much later I came to regret speaking those words. I hadn't realized, at the time, what an impression they had made."

I recoil involuntarily. "She never said anything about that."

"No." Catherine sighed. "I suppose she could hardly bear to think about it. In the end, we were forced to slip something into her wine and smuggle him out of the palace. And when she awoke…There were always those who had claimed their marriage was one of convenience, that they possessed only a childhood affection for one another. Those people knew nothing. She never forgave me for allowing them to take his body away. When she realized that he was gone, she collapsed and wailed in a way that nearly curdled my blood. 'Please don't let them take his heart, Catherine,' she begged me, but by then, obviously, there was nothing that I could do." She pauses, and I see her surreptitiously wipe a tear from her eye. "One would have thought the world had just ended, and I suppose, in a way…it had.

I dreamed of him—of Francis—the night that we received word of the execution. When I woke up, I felt as if I had just lost him all over again, only completely this time. As silly as it sounds, I think I believed that, so long as Mary lived, he would never truly be gone. How could his heart possibly be in that cathedral in Orleans? It was with her, as it had always been, and so long as she walked the earth, that part of him that had always loved her did, too."

I turn my eyes skyward once more, giving her some privacy in this moment of profound mourning. When she speaks again, her voice is much steadier. "I want to thank you for what you did earlier, not telling Henry the truth about her suffering."

"You gave me permission to do myself a favor. I did not want to recount the details."

She nodded. "I had already heard through my connections that the ax was dull, the scene utterly horrific. There was no point in upsetting Henry, however. He was quite fond of her."

"Yes, he told me."

"I am not surprised that she addressed her last letter to him. She and Francis were surrogate parents to my younger children in many ways, especially after Henry died. Of course, I knew there would be no farewell message for me. I am afraid that we did not part on the best of terms."

A memory bubbles to the forefront of my mind. I turn to her, and in a hesitant voice I say, "She did."

The queen's eyes sharpen with curiosity. "She did what?"

"She did have a farewell message for you." Suddenly, it is clear. "She knew that I was going to accompany Bourgoyne on his journey here to French court. Just as they were leading her out to the scaffold, she looked me in the eye and said, 'Tell her I died like a queen'."

For a long time, Catherine absorbs this without speaking. "Oh Mary," she murmurs finally, her stare fixed upon the darkened horizon, the tracks of her unchecked tears leaving silvery trails on her cheeks in the moonlight. "My dear, dear girl. As if I would have ever doubted it."

_**19 October 1587**_

"Where are you going?" Andrew asks. His brow is furrowed with confusion as he watches me knot my cape about my throat. "Our carriage will be leaving in just a few hours."

"Sweetheart, there is something that I must do before I leave." I hurtle myself into his arms and plant a loving kiss upon his lips. "I promise, I'll be back in time."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?"

I am already halfway out the door. "Don't worry, darling. I will be back before you know it."

With the aid of several footmen, I manage to lead myself out of the chateau and into the gardens. Once there, it is easy to make my way toward the lake, the waters of which sparkle brilliantly in the mid-morning sun. It is not until I reach the small copse of trees by the lakeside that my feet finally come to rest.

This was Mary Stuart's final request, and I have come here to honor it.

I remove the rosary from the lining of my cloak and admire the jet beads as they glint in the sun. Then I sink to my knees and carefully set it aside as I bend to scoop out a depression in the soil.

It is several minutes before I am satisfied with my handiwork. In front of me now lies a hole deep enough to serve my purpose, and I sit back upon my calves with a sigh.

_He kissed me once, beneath a stand of elm trees by the lake. That was the moment when I knew that I loved him. That I had always loved him._

I pry open the locket and see that the two locks of hair—one dark, one fair—are twined around one another just as they were when she had shown them to me all those months ago. As I close it once more, my heart is heavy with an unspeakable sadness that is somehow inexplicably tinged with hope. I bring the crucifix to my lips in a tender kiss, and do not take my eyes from it as I drop it gently into the earth.

"There you go, your Grace," I say softly. "There is a bit of you lying by his side under French soil, just as you wished." I begin pushing the pile of dirt back into place, and when the rosary lies buried completely, I find that my eyes are burning with tears. I stand up and shake myself off, feeling as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

"I hope you have found peace," I tell her, glancing up at the sky, "and each other. Whatever life lies beyond this one, I hope you are in it together."

As if in response, two robins alight from a nearby branch and wheel themselves into the sky. I watch them, delighted, until they disappear into the glare of the sun, and then I turn to leave.

* * *

**THE BEGINNING**

_**One Night in the Not-Too-Distant Future**_

"Oh!"

She bolts upright in bed, unable to stop the terrified gasp from escaping her lips. For a moment she is confused, unsure of her surroundings as her eyes slowly adjust to the enveloping darkness. She shivers, chilled to the bone, and when she looks down she sees that her nightgown is clinging to her skin in clammy folds. A cold sweat has broken out along her brow, plastering a few stray tendrils of hair to her temples, and as she pushes them back with trembling fingers, she glances over at the alarm clock that sits upon the nightstand on her side of the bed. The glowing green numbers reveal that it is nearly three in the morning.

From beside her she hears a sleepy, startled voice, as familiar to her now as her own. "What is it? Is it the baby?"

She folds her hands across the rounded curve of her belly in an instinctive, maternal gesture. "No," she attempts to assure him. "I just…had a bad dream, that's all. It's nothing."

"It didn't sound like 'nothing.' Come here." He pushes himself up until he is seated with his back against the upholstered headboard, then gathers her close. Since the moment she met him, he has been able to gentle her with nothing more than a touch, and she immediately relaxes against him.

"Do you think we've made a mistake?" The question spills out of her mouth abruptly, and she feels his arm stiffen where it lies draped across her shoulders.

"I think that's probably something you should have asked _before_ I got you pregnant," he responds dryly.

She smiles, in spite of herself. "I'm _serious_. We're so different. We've absolutely nothing in common."

"We love each other. We're going to have a child together. I wouldn't call that 'nothing'."

She bites her lip, an anxious silence her only reply.

He kisses her tenderly on the temple, and barely lifts his lips from her skin as he begins to speak, so that his every word tickles pleasantly near her ear. "I know you're scared. I know that you've given up a great deal to stay here and live with me, and make this your home. I love you for it, and I swear that I'll do whatever it takes to make you glad that you did."

"I'm already glad that I did," she mumbles. "_You're_ my home now. You know that. But…I _am_ scared. I can't help it."

"Tell me about your dream," he says quietly.

"I told you. It's nothing. It's silly—"

"It's three in the morning and you're asking me if I think we've made a mistake by being together. I don't think that's silly. Talk to me."

Her mind snatches at the rapidly fading images, trying to stitch them together into something coherent. "It was about us, I think," she begins haltingly, "but _not_ us, at the same time, if that makes sense. There was this path or a road of some sort, and I could see you walking ahead of me. I wanted desperately to catch up with you, but there were all these things that kept getting in the way."

"What kinds of things?"

"Like your Blonde Ambition Tour ex-girlfriend, for one. The one I had to play nicey-nice with, even though I wanted to pull her hair out by the roots."

"Darling, for fuck's sake—"

"You asked, and I'm telling you."

"And did you go throwing yourself into the arms of one of my friends to get back at me? Because—"

She breaks in with an exasperated sigh. "This. _This_ is what I'm talking about."

He suddenly and inexplicably grins, his teeth a gleaming slash of white in the darkness, and before she can ask him what is so amusing, he nimbly rolls atop her, propping himself up on his elbows so as not to press her too heavily into the mattress.

"What are you _doing_?" she squeaks, unable to suppress a giggle.

"I'm _trying_ not to squash the baby."

"And why are you grinning like the Cheshire cat? What's so funny?"

"You. Worrying about the past."

"It's not just the past. It's how we are—"

"Fine. I've changed my mind. Pretend all my ex-girlfriends were horrid and kiss whomever you want. Just promise to fall asleep in my arms each night."

She glares up at his amused face. "She _was_ horrid."

"You're right. She was the worst. The absolute worst. Now, finish telling me about this dream."

The helpless terror of it, forgotten momentarily, swirls about her once again. "Then somehow we were walking together, side-by-side, and I knew that everything was going to be all right. I was so happy. _We_ were so happy."

He lifts a hand to caress her face, the pad of his thumb gliding soothingly across the apple of her cheek, and when he speaks again, his voice is much softer. "And then what happened?"

"I—I don't know. You were gone. You were just _gone_."

"Gone where?"

"Ahead of me, I think, but I'm not sure. You were so far away, and I couldn't see you. I couldn't _find_ you. So I ran after you. I ran and I ran and I ran—it felt like years. And I was so tired and so frightened…"Her voice trails off, and she reaches up to wrap her fingers about his wrist in a vise-like grip as if to reassure herself that he is real. "I tried so hard to find you."

"Hey. _Hey_." He shakes her shoulder gently, and his eyes capture hers and refuse to let go. "I'm right here."

"I know. I know," she mutters. "And I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of those things I said a minute ago. I'm just so worried, and these hormones are driving me mad…I love you so much." She nuzzles her cheek against his palm. "I want to believe that we'll make it."

"We will. And when times get tough, we'll remember what the Beatles said."

"All you need is love?"

"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of 'Why Don't We Do It in the Road.' Ought to keep things fresh and exciting, don't you think?"

She swats playfully at him.

"And this dream of yours…That's all it is. A dream. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes. But it felt _so real_. I wanted to find you so badly, and I couldn't. It's like I knew that everything would be okay, if only I could just get back to you. It frightened me—it _frightens_ me—how much I need you."

He drops his forehead against hers, and she twines her arms around him and fiercely pulls him to her.

"And did you?" he prompts.

"Did I what?" she asks, breathless. He has begun planting little kisses along her jawline, making it nearly impossible for her to think, let alone breathe.

"Come back to me?"

She stares up at him in the moonlight, and there is something in his eyes that makes her feel as if she has been looking up at him this way for centuries, as if her gaze has never, not for one moment, been turned anywhere but toward him. She wonders if the overwhelming love she feels for him is there, written across her face.

The steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart thumps above her own as he slides a hand beneath her nightgown. His palm comes to rest on the slight swell of her stomach, and beneath it flutters the tiny beat of the one they made together.

He beams at her. The connection is so electric, it is almost painful.

She blinks back tears, but she is not frightened anymore.

"Yes," she whispers, the word coming out hesitant and slow. Then she smiles and threads her fingers through his silky hair, bringing his mouth down to hers. "Yes," she says again, but more confidently now, and in a voice bursting with quiet joy. "Yes, I think I did."


End file.
